


if you could return (don't let it burn)

by ShowMeAHero



Series: time cast a spell on you [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 2003, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Declarations Of Love, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Growth, In Between the 27 Years, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, New Years, POV Alternating, Pining, Radio, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “Not that I’m not enjoying our banter, buddy, but word on the street is you got a problem you could use some help with,” Richie says. “What’s bugging you at two in the morning on New Year’s Eve?”“New Year’s Day,” Eddie corrects again.“New Year’s Day, then,” Richie allows.There’s another beat of silence before he hears Eddie sigh audibly over the phone line. "I’m thinking about leaving my wife.”“Why’s that?” Richie asks. He’s already hooked. He genuinely cares about all of his callers and wants to help, but something about Eddie’s got its nails in him. Honestly, he doesn’t mind all that much. It’s a nice change of pace, to feel something.“We don’t get along all that well,” Eddie tells him. “I… I don’t know. We don’t really have anything in common. She’s sort of controlling, I guess. And I think I might be gay, so—”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: time cast a spell on you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594453
Comments: 228
Kudos: 2548
Collections: Reddie Secret Santa 2019, to be read





	if you could return (don't let it burn)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, Acorn! You're so wonderful to know and I'm so happy to have you as a friend. I hope you love, love, _love_ your present!
> 
> Title taken from ["Linger"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0gEyKnHvgkrkBM6fbeHdwK?si=Pzx_aBctReGi7bPRF5ynnA) by The Cranberries.

Richie Tozier might not have a lot going for him, but what he  _ does  _ have, he tries to keep stocked up in spades. He’s fun, so he tries to keep friends; he’s funny, so he has his own radio show. He’d always wanted his own radio show, when he was a kid, and now he’s twenty-seven and has a show called  _ The Richie Tozier Show,  _ where he calls himself “the poor man’s Frasier Crane” and stays on the airwaves all night, every night, from ten o’clock until four o’clock in the morning. He’s broadcast across the entire east coast and he’s starting to trickle into the south and the midwest. He’s heard that he’s been picked up on the west coast, too, in California and Washington, and when he delightedly tells his viewers, “Frasier’s back in Seattle,  _ baby,”  _ he likes to imagine they’re laughing, too.

It’s New Year’s Day, 2003, but Richie’s known for playing throwbacks, usually to the ‘80s and the early ‘90s. He loves all sorts of music, but this is sort of what he’s become known for, so he leans into it. He plays “Friday I’m in Love” by The Cure every Friday night when the show starts, and he remembers listening to the song when he was a sophomore in high school, remembers looking at someone and feeling in his chest the same way the song made him feel. Nobody ever asks why he plays that song, so he never says.

It’s New Year’s Day, 2003, but Richie gives advice in between songs, even though talk radio is supposedly on its way out. Everyone assumed he’d be some sort of shock jock, running a hot talk show where he yells at everyone who calls in, but he didn’t really want that. The people who called in late at night, when he was on the air, needed more than some dumbass stranger making smartass comments about them over the radio. Richie jokes around with them, offers shitty advice and just tries to make them laugh. He plays them throwback songs and wonders why his heart still beats faster when he hears New Kids on the Block or Juice Newton. More people call in, and Richie gets more popular, but he still feels like the same old guy.

It’s New Year’s Day, 2003, but Richie still plays “Linger” by The Cranberries anytime anyone calls in and tells him they have an unrequited crush, that they’re in love with someone who doesn’t love them back, because he remembers when the song came out while he was in high school and he used to listen to it on a loop. He doesn’t remember who his crush was, even though it wasn’t all that long ago, but he knows whoever it is got stuck in his chest. He shuts his eyes, whenever he plays that song, and tries to pull the image of whoever it was back into his mind, but he can never manage it. It always just gives him a headache.

It’s New Year’s Day, 2003, and Richie’s starting to feel a little lost.

“Honestly, I’d dump him,” Richie tells the caller. She’d introduced herself as Hattie before she started talking about how shitty her fiancé is for roughly four minutes straight without taking a breath.

“But we’re engaged,” she says softly. Richie sighs, dropping his chin into his hand. Theresa waves at him through the glass, so Richie makes a goofy face at her. At least his producer has to be up all night if he is, too.

“You’re not married,” Richie reminds her. “And, honestly? If you were, I’d say to divorce him. He sounds like a—” He turns to Theresa and mouths,  _ Can I say jackass?,  _ and Theresa shakes her head. Richie groans, then says, “Teri says I can’t say what he sounds like. But, trust me, it’s appropriately terrible.”

“He’s not that bad,” Hattie tells him.

“You deserve better than  _ not that bad,”  _ Richie says. “You deserve someone you’re in love with who’s in love with you, too. You  _ don’t  _ deserve someone who— What the fuck did you say, you said he— he accidentally backed over your  _ cat?  _ And he didn’t even apologize— Man,  _ leave him.” _

“I agree with Richie, for once,” Theresa says, flipping on her own mic to offer her input. She agrees with him constantly, so Richie doesn’t know what she’s on about. She winks at him. “The second he ruined my niece’s birthday party, I would’ve dumped his ass.”

“Oh,  _ you  _ can say ass, but  _ I  _ can’t say  _ jackass?”  _ Richie demands. Theresa laughs as he says, “I don’t care if we get kicked off the air!  _ He’s a jackass!” _

“You’re right,” Hattie says, sniffling. “I— You’re right. I should leave him.”

“Yes!” Theresa exclaims.

“Leave him!” Richie shouts. Theresa winces, motioning at her headphones, but Richie just waves her off. “Call back and update me when you’ve left, okay? And, heads-up, Portland, Hattie might need a place to stay—”

_ “Richie,”  _ Theresa admonishes.

_ “—and  _ she’s about to be single,” Richie said into his microphone. “Watch out, fellas!”

Hattie laughs, still sounding like she’s crying a little, but less than she was before. “Thanks, Richie.”

“No problem,” he says. “Got a song in mind, or want me to pick one?”

“You can pick one,” she replies, “I love your music, usually.”

_ “Usually,”  _ Theresa echoes. Richie flips her off.

“I’ll pick you a good one, I promise,” Richie says. “Take care of yourself, Hattie.”

“You, too, Richie,” Hattie replies, and hangs up. Richie scribbles down on his notepad  _ “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” Nancy Sinatra,  _ and presses it up against the glass for Theresa to see. She gets up to grab the tape for him.

“I’m still gonna be here for another two hours, guys, if anyone else needs encouragement to leave their husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, et cetera, anything in between,” Richie says, as Theresa pops the tape in the deck and gives him a thumbs-up. “I’ve dated ‘em all, so I’ve seen it all, and I got a few words of advice for you if you need it. In the meantime, though, enjoy one of my favorite anthems to dumping jackasses like the trash they are.”

_ “Richie,”  _ Theresa scolds again, just as the song starts. Richie laughs and shuts off his mic, and Theresa comes to open the door in the glass wall that keeps their halves of the studio separate, leaning in the doorway and grinning at him.

“Alright, lay it on me,” Richie says, as the music plays faintly so they can listen for it to end. “How much trouble am I in?”

“Probably not much,” Theresa tells him honestly. “Nobody’s ever listening after one—”

“Thanks,” Richie says drily, as Theresa gets distracted by the phone ringing. She scoots back over into her chair, hooks her headphones on and starts talking to whichever caller’s come through. She puts whoever it is on hold, then wheels her chair backwards into the doorway.

“A guy named Eddie who’s thinking about leaving his wife,” Theresa says. “Thoughts?”

“I’m in.” Richie cracks his knuckles, then says, “I’m in a homewrecking mood now, let’s do this.”

Theresa snorts at him and yanks the door shut. Richie pulls his headphones back into place and snaps his mic on just as the song ends, so he’s able to start going easily, his chin in his hand again.

“Hey, guys, welcome back, we’re going to talk with Eddie now,” Richie says. “Hi, Eddie.”

“Hi, Richie,” Eddie replies, and Richie’s heart skips. He feels abruptly dizzy, his head spinning; he frowns, then gathers himself enough to hear Eddie as he says, “Wow, I— I kind of feel like I know you.”

“Weird,” Richie says, before he can think better of it. “Actually, yeah, me too. You got one of those faces, Eds?”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie replies. “My name is  _ Eddie.” _

“Happy New Year’s Eve, Eddie,” Richie tells him.

“It’s New Year’s Day now,” Eddie says, before Richie can even make another joke. It makes Richie grin, perking up a little bit.

“Damn, you’re right.” Richie ignores Theresa flipping him off again to say, “You got a last name, Eddie?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Eddie says, hesitantly, “Do I have to?”

“No,” Richie says. “No, I can make one up for you, if you want.”

“Go ahe—”

“Okay, listeners, we got Eddie Spaghetti here—”

_ “No,  _ stop, I changed my mind,” Eddie insists, but now  _ Richie’s  _ laughing. The callers rarely ever make  _ him  _ laugh. “Jesus Christ, I should’ve known.”

“Not that I’m not enjoying our banter, buddy, but word on the street is you got a problem you could use some help with,” Richie says. “What’s bugging you at two in the morning on New Year’s Eve?”

“New Year’s Day,” Eddie corrects again.

“New Year’s Day, then,” Richie allows. There’s another beat of silence before he hears Eddie sigh audibly over the phone line.

“I heard you say you’d help if anyone wanted to leave their spouses,” Eddie starts, then stops. “Uhh— You said you’ve dated them all.”

“Yeah, I’ve dated your spouse, why?” Richie replies. He hears Eddie snort a laugh on the other end, and it makes him grin. “No, I know what you mean. Yeah, I’ve dated guys before.”

There’s quiet again, and then Eddie says, “That’s— brave of you to say. On the radio.”

“We’re in a post-Ellen world, Eds,” Richie tells him, even though it does make his heart pound every time he even hints at being gay on air. “I’m guessing your spouse isn’t a guy?”

Eddie huffs a humorless laugh, then says, “No, no, I— I have a wife. She’s asleep right now, that’s why I…” He pauses, then says, “Anyways, I’m thinking about leaving her.”

“Why’s that?” Richie asks. He’s already hooked. He genuinely cares about all of his callers and wants to help, but something about Eddie’s got its nails in him. Honestly, he doesn’t mind all that much. It’s a nice change of pace, to feel something.

“We don’t get along all that well,” Eddie tells him. “I… I don’t know. We don’t really have anything in common. She’s sort of controlling, I guess. And I think I might be gay, so—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait, slow down,” Richie interrupts. Theresa’s mic is off, but Richie can see her laughing soundlessly on her side of the studio. “You— Eds, man, if you’re gay, I’m sorry to say, but my professional advice? Don’t marry a woman—”

“No, I  _ might  _ be gay,” Eddie tells him urgently. “I’m not sure yet.”

Richie and Theresa make eye contact through the glass again. Theresa raises an eyebrow, but Richie just shrugs, then says, “Eddie, what makes you say that?”

There’s silence again. It goes on long enough that Richie’s just about to speak when Eddie sighs and says, “I am. I  _ am  _ gay.”

“Then you’ve gotta leave your wife, dude,” Richie says. “Just with the other stuff, even. You don’t want someone who you don’t get along with who’s trying to control you.”

“Men can’t marry men,” Eddie says, like that’s relevant, or like Richie doesn’t know that. He frowns, rubbing at his forehead.

“Yeah, no shit, Eds.”

“Can you say  _ shit  _ on the radio? Wait, can  _ I  _ say—”

“Neither of you,” Theresa interrupts them, her mic abruptly on, “should be saying  _ shit  _ on the radio, if you can help it.”

“Sorry, Teri,” Richie replies.

“Yeah, sorry,” Eddie echoes. There’s a beat before Eddie says, “I just meant— I like being married. I don’t want to be by myself.”

“You don’t have to be by yourself just because you’re gay, Eddie,” Richie tells him. “There’s a shitload— Sorry, Teri— of other gay guys out there, myself included.”

“Yourself included?” Eddie asks. Richie’s not sure if that’s a question asking  _ are you actually gay? _ or  _ are you available?,  _ and both questions make his palms sweat.

“Yeah,” Richie replies, in response to both questions, just in case. “So— Yes, Eddie Spaghetti, you should leave your  _ wife  _ if you’re  _ gay.  _ I’m glad to offer such valuable insight.” Eddie huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t feel quite as genuine. “Something still bothering you?”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Eddie says. “If I leave her, I mean.”

Richie hums in acknowledgment as he thinks. After a beat, he says, “Well, think of it as a New Year’s resolution. Figure out who Eddie Spaghetti is when he’s not married and be yourself. Then you’ll be the best version of you when you wanna find a new gay guy to live with. How’s that sound?”

It sounds like Eddie’s smiling when he says, “That sounds like some really good advice, Richie.”

Richie can feel his face heat up, so he keeps himself turned away from Theresa as he grabs his notepad and starts scribbling. “Happy to help, Eds. Will you call again?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, quickly. “I— Yeah, I’ll keep you updated on what happens.”

That’s not what Richie meant, but it’s what he  _ should’ve  _ meant, he realizes, so he says, “Thanks, Eds. And, one last thing— You want a specific song, or you want me to pick one for you?”

“Usually your song choices suck,” Eddie tells him, startling a laugh out of him. “If you could choose a song that  _ didn’t  _ suck, though, that’d be great, because I don’t have any ideas off the top of my head.”

“One song that doesn’t suck, coming right up,” Richie replies. “I’ll try my best for you, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“That’s—” Eddie says, then sighs. “Thanks, Richie.”

“Anytime,” Richie says, lifting up his notepad for Theresa to see. She gives him a thumbs up and spins backwards to get the tape off the wall. “Call again anytime you want, Eds. Our line’s always open to you.”

“Thanks again,” Eddie says. He hesitates, then says, “Goodnight.”

“Night, Eds,” Richie replies, grinning. There’s another beat before Eddie hangs up. Richie’s still beaming to himself as Theresa puts the tape in the deck. “Well, you heard it here first, folks. Gay men shouldn’t marry women. What a year 2003 is shaping up to be. And I’ve got the perfect song for when you love something you don’t think you can have, and it is  _ slamming,  _ so, Eddie, prepare to enjoy a song that doesn’t suck.”

The song starts, and Richie spins in his chair to look at Theresa. Their mics are both muted, so she sticks her head through the doorway between their sections and says, “Look a little bit more like a lovesick teenager, Rich, I dare you.”

“Shut up,” Richie says.

“He’s probably not even hot,” Theresa tells him. “He’s probably some old man with regrets.”

Richie stops himself from saying,  _ “Yeah, me too,”  _ but only just. Instead, he says, “Well, regardless, I hope he figures his shit out.”

“Me, too,” Theresa says, before ducking back into her side of the studio. Richie thinks back to Eddie’s voice and listens to the song; for the first time, when he hears The Cranberries, he almost thinks he can picture the kid he used to think about in high school.

* * *

Eddie cradles his cordless landline phone in his hands. He knows he took too long to hang up, he  _ knows  _ he sounded like a freak, but Richie had sounded so familiar and so warm and Eddie had laughed for real for the first time in just— so,  _ so  _ long. It had felt so  _ good,  _ for once.

His little portable radio is leaning against his thigh on the bathroom tile. The door is locked, and the radio’s volume is down, even though Myra is one of the heaviest sleepers Eddie has ever met. He didn’t want to take any chances of her overhearing him talking to a stranger on the radio about their marital problems, but— but these aren’t even  _ marital problems  _ anymore. Saying it to Richie and hearing it repeated back had made Eddie realize how absurd this entire thing was. He can’t stay married to her anymore, he  _ can’t.  _ He’s gay, and he’s known it for years, and he’s finally ready to do something about it.

Richie’s voice is still ringing in his ears as he listens to the song start. It’s “Linger” by The Cranberries, and Eddie smiles to himself. Richie plays this periodically, when he hears a story of unrequited love or he thinks someone needs a pick-me-up, Eddie thinks. He listens to Richie when he can, because the radio show always makes him feel like he has a friend at home, where he typically feels most alone.

Eddie gets up and shuts off the bathroom light. In the darkness, he listens to the music play softly through tinny speakers. It’s so dark that it’s like his eyes are shut even when they’re open, so he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhales slowly. He forces back the prickling at the back of his nose as he thinks about what Richie said.

_ “You don’t want someone who you don’t get along with who’s trying to control you,”  _ Richie had said, even separate from Eddie’s revelation about being gay. He was right, because Myra  _ does  _ try to control him, and they  _ don’t  _ get along, and they should’ve never gotten married. They were good acquaintances, yeah, but they hadn’t even really been good  _ friends. _ He’d kept dating her because he didn’t know what else to do. He’d proposed because his mother had hated the idea. He got married because he knew he couldn’t marry a man and he was pretty sure he was out of options.

_ “You should leave your wife,”  _ Richie had said. He had told Eddie to figure out the best version of himself or whatever. Nobody had ever said that to Eddie before, he’s pretty sure. It makes his chest hurt. It makes him hurt, too, to think of how Richie had told him he could be his best self when he started living with another man, and the thought of living with another man is the tipping point. The thought of that other man being somebody like Richie, maybe— a man who makes him laugh and tries to make him feel better— that’s the last straw.

Eddie goes into the other room, shakes Myra awake, and says, “Myra, we need to— I want to talk. To you.”

She glares up at him, grabbing her glasses off her bedside table and demands, “Talk about  _ what?”,  _ which is the last straw.

“I want a divorce,” Eddie says, and a piece of his chest clicks into place even as his brain starts screaming at him at the same time Myra does.

As it turns out, filing for divorce is confusing and upsetting. Who would’ve thought. The divorce attorney that Eddie’s coworker recommends to him sounds pitying on the phone, but Eddie is, overall, actually pretty excited when he goes to sleep in the guest room the next night. He’s equally horrified, because he has no  _ idea  _ what he’s going to do now, but he’s got the ball rolling. He’s  _ never  _ gotten the ball rolling. He’s always just let the ball roll right over him.

Eddie gets up around two in the morning, since he can’t sleep. He sneaks out to their living room to grab the phone and the portable radio again, careful not to be too loud near his— their— Myra’s? Myra’s— bedroom door. He had heard her lock the door before she went to sleep, just in case, so he does the same thing to the guest room door, and then to the door to the bathroom  _ off  _ the guest room. When he’s finally secluded, he turns on Richie’s show.

There’s a song playing, instead of Richie’s voice. Eddie drops his head down on the tile of the bathroom floor, unafraid since he’s the one who cleans it. He knows it’s good enough to eat off of, even if it won’t be his bathroom much longer, he’s assuming. Turning his face into the cold press of the tile, he listens to George Michael and just breathes.

Richie’s voice comes on, after the song ends, and he says, “Wow, that one brings me back—” and that’s all Eddie needs before he’s grabbing the phone again. He needs to hear Richie’s voice talking to him again, even if he doesn’t fully understand why. He’s assuming because Richie is the only person in his life who knows the truth. Well— Richie, and everyone who listens to his show. And Richie’s not  _ in  _ his life, not really. So— He’s not sure why.

He dials the same number as last night, and Theresa picks up.

“Hi,” Eddie says. “It’s—”

“Eddie!” Theresa exclaims. He can hear her banging on something that sounds like a window, and then she says, “I’m patching you through!”

“Th—” Eddie starts to reply, as the phone beeped and then Richie’s voice was coming through.

“Hey there,” Richie says.

“Hi, Richie,” Eddie says, and he can hear Richie on the radio and over the phone as he laughs. He has to turn the radio down, it’s so disorienting.

“Hi, Eds! Calling for business or for pleasure?” Richie asks.

“I told my wife I want a divorce,” Eddie tells him. Richie makes an excited noise, and Eddie can hear him clap his hands together; it makes him grin in a way nothing has in a long,  _ long  _ while.

“Good for you, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie tells him. “And how’d that go?”

Eddie’s got the dumbest fucking smile on his face when he says, “She yelled at me, but I stuck to my guns. I— I hired a divorce attorney today.”

“Eddie, that’s  _ amazing,”  _ Richie says. It sounds so genuine that it makes Eddie’s chest ache. He can’t think of anyone he knows who would sound this proud of him if he told them what he’d done. “Good for you! Wow, you didn’t waste any time, did you?”

“I told her after I got off the phone with you,” Eddie tells him. “I couldn’t wait anymore. Once I’d said it out loud, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening anymore. I had to do it.”

“You’re braver than you think, Eds,” Richie says. “I’m so proud of you. Wow!  _ Wow.” _

“Such riveting radio,” Theresa pipes up, sounding dry. Eddie feels his face heat up, and he’s glad nobody’s there to see him. “Got any good material, or am I just going to listen to the two of you make conversation?”

“Good question,” Richie says, while Eddie’s face gets even hotter. “Eds, my man, now that you’ve asked your wife for a divorce, what’re you gonna do now?”

Eddie’s not really thought about it. He’s not even sure how to  _ get  _ a divorce, entirely, let alone what he’ll do afterwards. He knows he has to find a new place to live. He’s debating looking for a new job, too, because he hates the one he has, and the floodgates are open now, on changing the things he hates about his life. He’s completely unsure of where to start.

“I have no idea,” Eddie answers honestly. “Any advice? Your last one worked out okay.”

“Just okay?” Richie scoffs. Eddie hides a smile behind his hand, even though he’s alone. “My advice is  _ superb,  _ Eddie Spaghetti.”

“That’s not my name,” Eddie says, more of an instinctive response than anything. “Give me advice, Richie. Isn’t that your job?”

“And what’s  _ your  _ job?” Richie asks. “So I can heckle you about it.”

Eddie briefly panics, thinking it’ll be too much information to put out there. Then again, as he reconsiders, he remembers he’s already getting a divorce and debating quitting his job. Anyone he knows who hears him is going to find out what he’s doing soon enough.

“I’m a risk analyst,” Eddie says. Richie whistles.

“Sounds boring as  _ fuck,”  _ Richie tells him. “Maybe your next step should be quitting your boring job.”

“Maybe it should,” Eddie agrees. They’re both quiet for a second before he says, “I’ve been thinking of quitting anyways. I don’t really like it all that much.”

“Damn, Eds, your life is the pits,” Richie comments. Eddie can’t help but laugh. “What job do you wanna do?”

“I— I really have no idea,” Eddie says. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“What’s your favorite part of your day?” Richie asks, seemingly out of nowhere. Eddie leans his cheek against his bent knees, back pressed against the wall.

“Uh…” Eddie considers what he does in an average day. He gets up, eats a relatively silent breakfast with Myra, the two of them bicker before he leaves. He drives to work, listening to his music or other talk radio shows, humming to himself. He hates his job, he drives back home, he argues with Myra some more, he locks himself in the bathroom and listens to a late-night talk radio guy he doesn’t know offer advice to people with problems similar to his, advice he never takes.  _ That’s  _ his favorite part of the day, if he’s honest.

He can’t be honest. He can’t tell a virtual stranger that the best part of his day, every day, is listening to him on the radio. He’d sound insane.

“My commute,” Eddie answers instead, because it’s the runner-up option. He smiles again when he hears Richie laugh on the other end.

“You and you alone,” Richie says. “What about it do you like?”

Eddie considers it, but he can’t come up with anything concrete. “I don’t know. I don’t mind driving. I like listening to the radio.”

“Oh,  _ do  _ you?” Richie asks. Eddie’s face burns again; he hides his face in his legs, the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He’s practically white-knuckling the plastic.

“Yeah, dipshit,” Eddie replies.

_ “Again,  _ with the swearing,” Theresa interjects.

“Sorry,” Eddie apologizes. “But, yeah, I do. You’re not on the radio during my commute, though.”

“So, you have to listen to me special?” Richie asks. “Do you listen to me as you fall asleep, Eds?”

“No, I have to get up to—” Eddie starts, then stops. “Hey, don’t you make jokes about my—”

“You  _ get up  _ to listen to my show?” Richie asks. For a second, Eddie thinks he’s teasing, but then he realizes Richie’s tone sounds more incredulous than anything else. “Why?”

Eddie runs a hand through his hair; the short curls stick between his fingers, and he says, “I don’t know! Because— I don’t  _ know,  _ Richie, I just like listening to your voice.”

They’re both quiet for a second, and then Richie says, “Your voice ain’t half-bad either, Eds.” Eddie flushes. He wonders what Richie looks like as Richie asks, “So, you like driving? Why don’t you become, like, one of those service drivers? You know, like, car service people? Drive fancy people around and stuff. Do you live in a place with fancy people?”

“I’m in New York City,” Eddie tells him. Richie laughs.

“Small world,” Richie says. “Same, here. And I can tell you there are  _ plenty  _ of fancy people looking for car services around here. You could own your own business, Eds. How do you like  _ them  _ apples?”

Eddie feels warm all over. Richie has a confidence in him that Eddie doesn’t think anyone’s ever had, not even himself. After a moment, he says, “That sounds great, actually.”

Richie sounds like he’s smiling, too, when he says, “Well, then, there you go, Eddie Spaghetti. On your quest to find yourself and who you are when you’re not married, you can become a limo driver. Not the typical path to happiness, but who said you’re typical?”

_ “Richie,”  _ Eddie murmurs, feeling almost embarrassed. He’s  _ definitely  _ embarrassed when he remembers this isn’t just a phone call with a friend  _ (or a crush?,  _ his brain asks, and he ignores the unbidden thought), that he’s on the fucking  _ radio  _ with Richie right now.

“You’re a pretty special guy, Eds,” Richie says. “I’m excited to find out who you are when your life doesn’t suck.”

“That’s pretty deep from someone who chose such a shitty song last night,” Eddie replies, even though the song choice had been perfect and the song had been stuck in his head all day. It’ll probably make him think about Richie for the rest of his life, maybe.

Richie laughs before he asks, “How can I do better for you?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re getting warmer,” Eddie tells him. “I’ll train you into having taste.”

“Implying that you’ll be calling a third time, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie asks. Eddie smiles into his kneecaps again.

“If you’re lucky, Richie Tozier,” he replies, and he has no  _ idea  _ where the  _ fuck  _ that came from. There’s a beat of startled silence.

_ “Oho,”  _ Richie says after a moment, and then he’s laughing. It makes Eddie laugh, too, before he stifles the sound behind his hand. “Then I look forward to your review tomorrow night. Until then, my dear, adieu.”

“Goodnight, Richie,” Eddie replies. He listens for the start of the song before hanging up. The song starts, and he doesn’t recognize it for a second. After a moment, he places it as a song his dad had on a record when he was a kid. He listens to Johnny Bristol sing “Hang On in There Baby” with his eyes shut for a moment before hanging up. The music plays softly through the old speakers on his portable radio, and he just  _ listens,  _ just for a moment, and basks in the feeling of not being completely alone.

* * *

Richie wishes he could somehow get his conversations with Eddie to last all night, but he is technically working and Eddie still has a normal job, which means he needs to sleep eventually, so they can’t do that. He considers maybe asking for Eddie’s phone number, so he can call him during regular hours, but it feels like crossing a line. Besides, Eddie’s going through a divorce, plus a, like,  _ total  _ upheaval of his life. He doesn’t need some weirdo from the radio trying to fuck him on top of all of that.

Anyways, he doesn’t even know what Eddie looks like. Theresa might be right, he could be a total freak or an old man or something like that.

The longer they talk, though, the more Richie starts to think Eddie’s not a freak. Even if he  _ was,  _ he’s starting to get such a  _ deep  _ crush on the voice he hears over the phone that he’s not even sure it would matter if Eddie  _ was  _ an ugly freak.

When four o’clock in the morning comes and Richie’s show ends, he finds himself lamenting the fact that this means he’ll have to wait until the next night to talk to Eddie again, every single morning. He’s starting to enjoy the nights more than he enjoys the days, just because he’s excited to hear if Eddie’s gonna call (he hasn’t missed one night since New Year’s) and what he’s gonna say (he updates Richie on everything in his life, and he’s started asking about Richie’s life in return). They get scolded more than once by Theresa for hogging the airwaves, but the station head, Maurice, actually praises Richie for coming up with a “clever storyline” like this, never mind that this is some real guy’s actual life being discussed every night. It makes Richie feel uncomfortable, so he pushes it out of his brain.

He gets teased constantly, because of course he does. Kenny, who cohosts the morning show with Cindy, antagonizes him  _ every time  _ they cross paths to swap out the studio. When it’s been a few weeks of Eddie’s calls, Kenny leans in the doorway, shaking his head at him as the show ends.

“Rich, only you could spend hours on the radio flirting with some random dude every night,” Kenny says. Richie flips him off as he gathers his coat and his bag.

“I’m not flirting,” Richie says, even though he is very much attempting to flirt on a nightly basis. “Dude just needs some help.”

“Just some dude?” Kenny asks. “Doesn’t sound like just some dude. Sounds like you like  _ Eds—” _

“Eddie,” Theresa interjects, in a shitty impression of Richie’s voice, with an exaggerated, dreamy sigh afterwards.

“Eddie  _ Spaghetti,”  _ Kenny echoes, doing his own subpar impression. Richie waves them both off, scowling.

“You’re both homophobes,” Richie snaps. That just makes them laugh at him. “Oh, fuck off—”

“If you don’t want to be teased for flirting on the radio, Rich, don’t flirt on the radio,” Kenny tells him. Richie flips him off before shouldering his bag and leaving.

When Richie gets home, he falls asleep almost instantly. It’s what he does every day, because nobody wants to hang out between the hours of four in the morning and noon anyways. Then he just rolls out of bed, gets lunch with a friend or by himself, and then basically does fuck-all until it’s time to go back to work. He’ll see movies, sometimes, in the afternoons, or go to matinee performances of shows, but that’s about it. He’s usually not sure what to do with himself.

Now, though, he’s got too much pent-up energy. He wakes up at eleven-thirty, even earlier than his standard noon and his typical one o’clock, and can’t fall back asleep. His blood is  _ buzzing  _ just thinking about talking to Eddie again, even though he has no right to do that. He’s just some poor schmuck who needed someone to talk to. That’s it. That’s  _ all. _

Richie has a lot of buzzing energy regardless of how many times he tells himself that fact, so he resolves to do  _ something.  _ None of his friends are free for a last-minute lunch date, and there aren’t any good movies or shows he wants to see that he hasn’t already seen a few times by now. When he paces his apartment, looking for something to do, his eyes land on his bookshelf, and he sees a bunch of his old notebooks jammed in towards the end.

“Well,” Richie says out loud, then stops. His dog runs in at the sound of his voice and sits down at his feet, thumping his tail on the ground. “Hey, Lukey.”

The brown-spotted mutt just keeps smiling dumbly at him, so Richie scratches him behind the ear. Luke’s full name is Luke Skywalker Tozier, and he’ll answer to it if Richie calls it in the right tone, but he tends to call him some variation of Luke, Lukey, Spooky, Ghost-Boy, or Casper, which all are just different devolutions of his actual name.

“What do you think?” Richie asks. Luke knocks an empty Coke bottle with a withered sunflower in it off the bottom bookshelf with his wagging tail. “Yeah, me too.”

Richie grabs a handful of his notebooks and drags them out of the bookcase. He brings them to his kitchen table, staring down at the worn covers against the grainy wood. After a long moment, he digs a few pens out of a junk drawer and starts writing down the first jokes that come into his head.

He keeps writing until he completely runs out of good ideas, and then he hesitates before starting to write down the bad ones, too, just so he can keep going. He writes down anything and everything, scratching out the shittiest ones and workshopping them on the same page. Luke barks at him when it’s dinnertime, and that’s the only thing that gets him up from the table. It’s the most productive he’s been in  _ months,  _ if not  _ years,  _ to be quite honest. He’s not sure if he’s still got it, if he ever had it, but he’s always wanted to do standup. He  _ wants  _ to be a comedian; he doesn’t mind being on the radio, but it’s not his endgame.

Richie actually manages to fill one of the notebooks up with some of his worst shit and some of his best before he really needs to leave to make it to work in time for his show. He leaves his notebooks behind, but he finds himself buzzing with excitement anyways— Not just because of Eddie, though that is, like,  _ at least  _ sixty percent of it, if not up to ninety percent. No, it’s also the excitement of— of  _ doing  _ something. He’s been telling himself he’d try to work on his standup for so long, and now he’s got the ball rolling. He’s weirdly proud of himself.

“What are you so happy about?” Theresa asks, when Richie rolls up, grinning like a dumbass. He drops his bag next to his desk and dumps his coat and his hat in a pile on the floor.

“I’m getting my act together,” Richie announces, delighted. He spreads his arms and says, “I don’t think I  _ want  _ to be miserable anymore, Teri!”

“That’s… good, for you, Richie,” Theresa tells him. Richie collapses in his chair, sighing. Theresa comes over and pats him on the head a couple of times. “You’re not supposed to want to be miserable, you know.”

Richie looks up, then says, with as much gravity as he can muster, “Theresa, I think I’m depressed.”

Theresa looks surprised at how solemn he is until he grins, at which point she smacks him on the shoulder. “You  _ dick,  _ I felt  _ bad—” _

“I  _ am  _ depressed,” Richie tells her.

“Then get a therapist,” she tells him. He considers it.

“Okay, yeah,” he replies. She stops, looking at him.

“You’re serious?” she asks. “Because I’ve been telling you to go to therapy for a while now and you keep blowing me off or making stupid jokes about it.”

Richie considers what he’s been saying to Eddie every night, about how he deserves to be happy and to live his best life, and he sort of wants that for himself, too. If Eddie’s making himself the best he can be, Richie wants to be the best  _ he  _ can be. Just in case.

“I want to get better,” Richie says. He’s a little surprised at  _ himself  _ about how honest and sincere it comes out, but it’s true. Theresa looks him over for a long moment, obviously waiting for a joke, but when nothing comes, she shrugs, smiling a little bit.

“Alright, I’ll get you the number for my office,” Theresa tells him. “But you’re  _ not allowed  _ to have the same therapist as me, do you hear me, Richard?”

“I hear you, I hear you,” Richie assures her, before settling into his seat. He grabs up his headphones and starts the show. He dispenses advice and picks out songs as well as he always does, with a grin in his voice the entire time, but he’s really just waiting for Eddie’s call. It comes at two o’clock, same as ever.

“Hi, Rich,” Eddie says, the second he’s put on the air. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m good,  _ darling,  _ how’re you?” Richie asks, ignoring the look Theresa’s shooting him through the glass. Richie just drops his chin into his hand and grins at his microphone like it’s Eddie himself.

“I’m good, dumbass,” Eddie tells him.

“What did I  _ say?”  _ Theresa scolds them. “I  _ said—” _

“We’re not allowed to swear,” Eddie and Richie say in perfect sync. Richie and Theresa make eye contact; after a moment, Theresa’s face goes all smug.

“Sorry, Teri,” Eddie continues. Theresa mouths  _ Teri  _ at Richie, because Richie’s really the only one at work who calls her that, so Eddie obviously picked it up from him.  _ Obviously.  _ It’s embarrassing, in a way other things haven’t been, because it’s tangible proof that he’s having an impact on Eddie, too. Even if it’s not in the same way, he  _ is  _ having an effect on his life. It’s strange to consider, that Eddie goes about his life and that Richie might occupy even a fraction of his thoughts during that time. He finds himself desperately wishing that he could be  _ with  _ Eddie during that time, which makes him a little stupid.

“Any big news today, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie asks. It’s his go-to every night, because he’s incredibly excited for the night Eddie says,  _ “Yup, my divorce is finalized,”  _ and Richie can, hopefully, make some sort of move. Maybe. Potentially. If the moment feels right.

“Actually, yeah,” Eddie says, and Richie’s heart jumps. He doesn’t know much about the process of divorce, since his own mother just left one day without another word and so his father hadn’t had to go through any normal divorce process. Not that he talked to Richie about any of that anyways.  _ Regardless,  _ he’s not sure how quickly divorce proceedings go, even though Eddie’s tried to explain it to him a few times, and a couple of listeners have even called in to try and help explain it in a way he’d understand. It’s never properly sunk in, mostly because he’s too distracted daydreaming about Eddie and his fast, intelligent voice.

“What’d you get up to on this lovely winter afternoon, Edward?” Richie asks.

“How’d you know my name’s Edward?” Eddie demands. They both pause.

“Because… your name is Eddie?” Richie says slowly. “What else would Eddie be a nickname for?”

“I don’t know!” Eddie exclaims. “Edwin, Edmund— Edd… Edison, I don’t know—”

_ “Edison?”  _ Richie echoes incredulously. “Eds, man, it’s alright. I’m not gonna expose you on the air.”

Eddie lets out a harsh breath, staticky over Richie’s headphones. It takes a moment before he explains, “It’s not that, sorry. It’s— My wife— Uhh. Soon-to-be ex-wife, she calls me Edward.”

“Ugh.” Richie makes a gagging sound, and Eddie huffs a laugh. “Then I’ll never say it again, Eds, you have my word as a scout. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Were you a scout?” Eddie asks.

“I don’t remember,” Richie says. Eddie doesn’t laugh, but neither does Richie. It doesn’t feel funny, for a moment, but then Richie says, “What’s your big news, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Oh, right,” Eddie says. “I looked at a bunch of apartments today, and I’m actually applying for a couple of places right now. I’m filling the forms out.”

“It’s two in the morning, Eds,” Richie points out, grinning. “Where  _ are  _ you?”

There’s a beat before Eddie says, “The floor of the guest room bathroom.”

_ “Why?”  _ Richie asks.

“Because I’m living in the guest room now,” Eddie says. “Obviously we don’t share a bedroom anymore.”

“Do I have to remind you two that we’re on the air, or does that just not matter anymore?” Theresa asks.

“It doesn’t really matter anymore,” Richie tells her. Eddie and Theresa both laugh, so Richie grins. He’s always happy when he hasn’t crossed a line yet.

“I’m hoping to move out as soon as I can,” Eddie says. “That’ll officially start our separation. We’re pursuing a fault divorce on account of the, uhh…”

“The gay thing,” Richie provides helpfully.

“Yes, the gay thing,” Eddie repeats drily. “So, it should be over pretty quick, and I want to do everything I can to move things along. And…” Eddie trails off, then stops.

“And?” Richie prompts. When Eddie doesn’t continue, he says, “Did we lose ya, Eds?”

“No, I just…” Eddie stops, then sighs. “I didn’t know if it was like— I didn’t know if it was an appropriate thing to say.”

“Eddie, you remember whose show this is, right?” Richie asks. Eddie laughs on the other end, which never fails to make Richie smile.  _ “Nothing  _ I say on this show is appropriate to say.”

“He’s right,” Theresa says. “That’s why they make him take the night slot.”

“Hey, I  _ like  _ the night slot,” Richie argues. It’s not strictly  _ untrue;  _ he just doesn’t care, because it’s easier than being home alone all night in the darkness. Luke is great, but there are several things a boyfriend could do that Luke simply can’t.

“I’m glad you’ve got this slot,” Eddie comments. “I don’t think I would’ve heard you otherwise.”

Richie’s face burns, so he says, “What inappropriate, terrible thing were you going to say, Eddie, baby?”

He can almost  _ see  _ Eddie scowling on the other end, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he knew what Eddie looked like. He’s pieced together every part of what constitutes  _ his type  _ in his brain, some deeply-rooted preferences all blending together in one faceless blur in his mind. Someone shorter than him, strong, fit, brunette, brown eyes, sweet mouth—

“I’m starting to go to bars,” Eddie tells him. Richie’s chest  _ hurts,  _ when he hears that, and he’s not entirely sure  _ why. _ “I— Like. I mean, I’m starting to try and date.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Richie says, “You should start at the Red Dragon.”

“That…” Eddie starts to say, then stops. Richie’s eyes slip shut, because the Red Dragon is a  _ very  _ well-known gay bar. Like, well-known enough that even some straight people know about it, and it seems like Eddie actually realizes what he’s said.

“I didn’t—” Richie says, but Eddie cuts him off.

“Yeah, I’ll try the Red Dragon,” he says. Richie buries his face in his hands.

“Eds, the Red Dragon is a gay—”

“I know what it is,” Eddie says, and Richie’s brain promptly explodes. He’s surprised he doesn’t get a fucking bloody nose from hearing Eddie say that. “You’re totally right, I should go. Do you go there?”

“Sometimes,” Richie manages to say. “I haven’t been in a while. I’ve done their open mics a few times, though.”

“Anything good?” Eddie asks.

“You know there’s not,” Richie replies, trying to keep their regular banter up when he’s strangely half-hard. He shifts in his seat, then says, “What kind of song are you looking for tonight, Eds?”

“Last night’s was good,” Eddie tells him. He’d played “You’re the One That I Want” from  _ Grease,  _ and so Richie laughs.

“You’re a showtunes guy,” Richie says. “I should’ve known.”

“I just love  _ Grease,”  _ Eddie tells him, “which makes me a normal guy. I’m looking for something along those lines.”

“Another showtune?” Richie asks.

“No,” Eddie says. “I mean more along the lines of… the energy of the song. You know?” After a beat, Eddie adds, “Maybe something I could request at the Red Dragon.”

Richie’s heart skips a step. He snatches up his notepad and pen and scribbles down his song choice, his pulse pounding through his veins as he does so.

“I know exactly what you’re looking for, Spaghetti,” Richie tells him. “You just sit back and relax and let Dr. Tozier take care of you.”

“Ugh,  _ Dr. Tozier,”  _ Eddie echoes.

“There  _ is  _ a Dr. Tozier, he’s just my dad and he’s a dentist,” Richie says.

“Your dad’s a dentist?” Eddie asks. “I feel— I mean, I don’t really know that much about you. I’m sorry, I— I never asked.”

“You’re sorry you never asked what my dad does for a living?” Richie repeats incredulously. “Eds, you remember I’m hosting this show, right? You don’t have to ask about my life.”

“But I  _ want  _ to,” Eddie says, sounding so genuine that Richie’s smartass retort dies in his mouth. “Are you guys— You two close?”

“Nah,” Richie tells him. He wants to make a joke, but he wants to reward Eddie’s sincerity in kind. “We’ve never gotten along. He’s a pretty shitty dad.”

“I have a pretty shitty mom,” Eddie offers in return. It makes Richie grin again, hiding his face in his hand so Theresa won’t see him being a dumbass idiot.

“Welcome to the Losers’ Club,” Richie tells him. Eddie huffs a laugh. “We should have jackets made.”

“Weren’t you talking about something?” Theresa asks. Richie’s not entirely sure, because he’s been lost just in the thread of talking to Eddie, forgetting that he’s actually supposed to be doing something here.

“You were going to pick a song for me,” Eddie reminds him.

“Ah,  _ yes,”  _ Richie says. “A song you can request at the Red Dragon to show all the boys what your intentions are, mm?”

He wishes he could see Eddie’s face, because he sounds horribly scandalized when he says,  _ “Richie,  _ Jesus  _ Christ,  _ this is the  _ radio—” _

“And it’s nearly three in the— Wow, is it nearly three?” Richie asks Theresa, who nods, looking playfully disgruntled. “Whoops. Sorry, Eds.”

“No,  _ I’m  _ sorry, I didn’t even realize,” Eddie says. “Play me a song, Rich.”

“Your wish is my command, Eds,” Richie replies. He relocates his notepad and holds it up so Theresa can read his song choice. Luckily, her mic is off, because he can see her laughing, even if he can’t hear it. “Alright, here’s a song that’s about more than it seems. Roll the tape, Teri.”

Theresa rolls her eyes, but she starts the song, and Heart fills his headphones.

“Eds, this is ‘All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You,’” Richie says over the beginning of the song. This is another classic from high school; he remembers liking it, until someone told him it was about a woman tricking a man into impregnating her because her husband was sterile, at which point Richie  _ loved it.  _ He doesn’t remember who told him, back in 1990, but he thinks about it periodically. “It’s supposedly about sex, but it’s actually about a little bit more. Have you ever listened closely?”

“Yes,  _ dumbass,”  _ Eddie tells him, laughing. It makes Richie smile so hard his face hurts.

“Oh, for the love of God, get off the line,” Theresa exclaims.

“Goodnight, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, allowing it only because it  _ is _ three o’clock now and he should probably let Eddie sleep. And have other callers, you know, and music, and stuff like that.

“Goodnight, Richie,” Eddie replies. He lingers on the line again before hanging up. Richie wonders what that means, or if it even means anything at all. He remembers Eddie’s laugh when he heard the song. It echoes in his ears all the way home.

* * *

Eddie’s still laughing to himself when he hangs up, but the sound dies pretty quick. It feels weird, laughing by himself in the guest room bed next to his portable radio. He turns the volume up a little bit, closing his eyes when he listens to let the music sink in. Richie’s right, the song is bizarre as hell, but he’s always known that. The fact that Richie picked the song out for him, though— That,  _ that…  _ was stressing Eddie out a little bit.

At least, he thought he was stressed out, but then he thinks about Richie and the way Ann Wilson is singing about how great it is to fuck a dude she met on the side of the road and the thoughts all get mixed up in his head. He slips his hand into his boxers, wrapping a tentative hand around his cock like he’s going to get yelled at for it. He reminds himself he’s twenty-seven years old and getting a divorce so, he’s kind of single, so it really doesn’t matter.

The music’s rattling in his ears when he imagines what Richie might look like, if he might be taller than Eddie is, if he might have broad shoulders like Eddie likes in the guys he sees on the walks he takes on his lunch break. He’s got a type, and he imagines Richie fits it, when he fucks the tight circle of his own fist silently to Heart on the radio at three in the morning.

Eddie’s not sure when this song came out, but he thinks it was when he was in high school; he could’ve been a freshman, maybe, or a sophomore, but he knows he liked this song. He knows he used to think about a boy he had a crush on when he heard it. Eddie’s even pretty sure he told the kid what the song was about, and he can almost remember how he’d laughed, but he can’t— not clearly, anyways, not really. It’s enough of a lingering emotion that it settles in the base of Eddie’s spine, and then lower, pooling between his legs as he bites sounds back into his throat so Myra won’t hear him.

It’s all lost when the song starts to die down. Eddie’s pace picks up, imagining Richie there with him, imagining what he’d do, what he’d say, if they ran into each other at some place like the Red Dragon and were able to— to do what Eddie  _ wants  _ to do, for once, what he’s wanted to do for  _ weeks  _ now, maybe  _ months— _

“That one’s for you, Eddie,” Richie says, as the song is dying down. Eddie’s not sure if it’s just a coincidence that his orgasm crests at the same time Richie starts talking, or if one of them has to do with the other; all he knows is that Richie’s name comes out of his mouth when his climax hits him, and he can barely think straight around the thought of doing this with  _ Richie. _

His heart’s pounding, he’s got his own cum splattered across his t-shirt, and he’s definitely,  _ absolutely  _ gay. He came to a man’s voice on the  _ radio. _

“What is this, the fucking fifties?” Eddie mutters to himself. He rubs at his face with his clean hand as Richie keeps talking on the radio. He’s taking a new caller now, but Richie’s voice sounds rough and teasing still, like it had gotten while he’d been talking to Eddie. Eddie takes the time to clean himself off in the bathroom before settling back in bed, curling up around the radio to listen to Richie talk.

Now that he’s finally removed himself from the entire Myra situation, which came into existence at the end of his undergraduate years, he’s able to better explore his… emotions.  _ Feelings,  _ or— or  _ yearnings,  _ or whatever the hell it all is. Eddie knows he’s not supposed to feel guilty about his  _ feelings,  _ that his therapist Marcie wants him to  _ lean in  _ to his  _ feelings,  _ but it’s hard, after years of doing the exact opposite of that.

He tries anyways. He shuts his eyes hard and listens to Richie’s voice like it’s in the room with him. He imagines that he’s just gotten off with Richie—  _ or any man, really, it doesn’t matter,  _ he tells himself, even though it kinda does— and that now he’s settling into bed with his— boyfriend. His partner. Who is a man. And— hopefully has broad shoulders, and is maybe taller than him, and maybe has a fun sense of humor and a sharp wit and—

Eddie groans, pressing his face into his pillow. His stupid fucking belated sexual awakening had to be a voice on the  _ radio.  _ He can’t tell Marcie this, it’s  _ mortifying. _

Even more mortifying is how Eddie falls asleep with his cheek pressed to the speaker of the portable radio, but he’s not even entertaining the idea of telling anybody about that. That’s just for  _ him _ to know and burn with shame for the rest of his days, or at least through his morning and back to work the next day.

Eddie gets home from work that evening and checks his voicemails to find out that he’s been accepted for two of the apartments he had applied for, and one of them is move-in ready. When he calls his realtor back and she says, “If you want, Edward, you could be in there tomorrow,” his heart skips a beat.

“Do you  _ really _ mean tomorrow, or was that just an exaggeration?” Eddie demands. There’s a beat of hesitation on the other end of the phone line.

“I actually meant it,” she says. “Eager beaver?”

“You have no idea,” he tells her. She asks him to stay on the line while she works out the details of his rental agreement, but he’d agree to pretty much anything if it meant he got to move out as soon as humanly possible. He’s already stayed in this apartment with Myra too long; hell, he’s been in this fucking  _ relationship  _ with her too long, never mind the goddamn apartment. His blood’s boiling in his veins while he waits, the phone clutched to his ear.

When his realtor comes back on the line and says, “I’m sure eleven o’clock tomorrow works for you, then,” Eddie can’t stop himself from doing a fist pump to himself, before briefly being grateful that there’s nobody to see him.

“Yes, that works, that absolutely works,” Eddie tells her. “Where can I pick up my keys and sign the lease and whatever else, I don’t care, I’ll—”

“Alright, slow down,” she interrupts him. She walks him through the documentation he needs to bring with him the next morning when he comes to work out the lease agreement. Eddie thanks her profusely before hanging up, retreating to the guest room to count how many cardboard boxes he’s managed to store up in the closet. He’s gotten up to five, but he’s not even sure he needs that many. There’s not much he needs to bring, if the place already has furniture. Just his stuff.

He waits until Myra gets home, eats dinner, and goes to her bedroom. He hears the lock click, then waits a while longer, until he’s sure she’s asleep and won’t wake up and come out to see him. It’s only then that Eddie starts packing.

There’s not much that he considers  _ his.  _ There’s his things in their tiny storage room, odds and ends from his childhood that he had had to take when his mother had died, and he grabs all of those. He takes his comic books and his novels, all of his important documents, and only the clothes he likes wearing. A few of the fridge magnets belong to him, and some mugs, a couple of plates; his toothbrush and soaps, his comb, his razor. His things fill three boxes and a duffel bag, and Eddie lines it all up in the guest room.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, looking down at his belongings. There’s just— It’s pretty much  _ nothing.  _ There had been so much when he and Myra had moved into this place, and this was all that he cares enough to bring with him. These are the only things he feels he can call  _ his,  _ and there’s almost nothing.

This is it. This is all he has. Three boxes, one duffel bag, one job he hates, one failed straight marriage, and one gay crush on a man on the radio. The seven sins of Edward Kaspbrak.

Because Eddie really wants to twist the knife in his own back, if he gets a chance, he calls into Richie’s show at two in the morning, same as always. Theresa picks up and says, “Hi, this is—

“Hi, Teri, it’s Eddie,” Eddie cuts her off, because they mutually decided he didn’t need to hear her spiel anymore back around the second week.

“Oh, hey, Eddie,” Theresa says. She sounds a little distracted as she asks, “Got anything good tonight?”

“I got something great, actually,” Eddie tells her. Theresa whistles.

“Richie’ll be happy to hear it, he’s been worried about you,” Theresa says. Eddie’s brow furrows as he tucks his face against his knees on the guest room bed.  _ His  _ bed, for one last night, before he moves out in the early afternoon while Myra’s not here.

“What’s he worried about?” Eddie asks, but Theresa’s already put him on hold to tell Richie he’s called. Eddie listens to Richie’s pause on the portable radio, then hears him start wrapping up with the caller he’s talking to. It makes him smile into his kneecaps; after a moment, he lifts his head and lets himself laugh, listening to Richie’s voice. If he can’t smile or laugh on his last night in this place, then this whole—  _ thing,  _ whatever it is he’s been trying to convince himself about for the last few years— it’s all been for nothing. He wants to leave happier than he came.

Richie picks a Pearl Jam song that Eddie listens to with his eyes closed. He imagines Richie doing the same thing, somewhere in New York, too. It’s like his fantasy from the night before, but softer; instead of getting jerked off by Richie, he imagines himself listening to the music Richie picks out for him. He imagines the nebulous concept of  _ Richie  _ pulling Eddie’s head into his lap, stroking his hair, being intimate with him in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever really  _ been _ with another person.

“Eddie, could it be?” Richie says, startling Eddie’s eyes back open. “Fancy meeting you here. How was your day, honey?”

“It was pretty great, actually,” Eddie tells him. “Guess what?”

“You quit your job in a blaze of glory!” Richie exclaims.

“No,” Eddie says, then frowns. “Well, now this doesn’t sound so exciting—”

“No, no, tell me,” Richie insists. Eddie turns down the radio so he can focus on Richie’s voice solely over the phone. It feels like they’re friends. At least, it feels that way to Eddie; sometimes, he thinks it might feel that way to Richie, too, but then he talks himself out of it. This is Richie’s  _ job.  _ They’re friendly, but that’s about it, right? So Eddie probably shouldn’t be fantasizing about jerking off with him or snuggling with him or whatever other weird daydreams that worm their way into his head during the day, all about falling in love with Richie Tozier. Eddie exhales, rubbing at his face. “Eds? You okay, babe?”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie replies. He’s thinking of  _ Eds;  _ the  _ babe  _ registers late, and his entire face flushes hot. He’s already half-hard just from this, so far. He’s mortified and aroused and he can never tell  _ anyone  _ about this. “No, yeah, it’s good news, Rich. I’m moving out.”

“That’s  _ great  _ news!” Richie exclaims, correctly this time. Eddie grins, slipping down in bed to lay more comfortably against his pillows, the phone caught between them and his ear. “Eds, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you! When’s the big day?”

“Uh, tomorrow, actually,” Eddie tells him. Richie makes a strange noise. “Are  _ you  _ okay?”

“No, yeah, I’m good,” Richie says. “That was excitement and also sadness.”

“Why sadness?” Eddie asks, before he can help himself.

“Because I wanted to help you move but I have an open mic tomorrow,” Richie tells him. Eddie’s heart starts to pound, making his chest physically  _ ache. _

“I wanted to come to one of your open mics,” Eddie replies pitifully.

“It’s like the Gift of the Magi,” Theresa teases them. Eddie jumps a little, forgetting that anybody else was even listening to them. He sounds like such a fucking  _ nerd,  _ talking to Richie like that in front of— of who  _ knows  _ how many people? For fuck’s sake, his  _ boss  _ could be one of these people, and then he’ll— he’ll—

Eddie’s not sure what he’ll do. He finds that he doesn’t care all that much about it, as Richie laughs at him over the phone and says, “But, Eddie, I  _ sold  _ my microphone to buy you a moving truck!”

“And I sold my divorce papers to get you a microphone stand,” Eddie replies, playing along even as his heart is racing and his dick is almost completely hard now. “What a shame.”

“A damn shame,” Richie agrees. “Well, at least you’re still getting the divorce. That’s a nice gift.”

“What do you—”

“How’d your soon-to-be-ex-wife take the news, speaking of?” Richie asks, as if Eddie hadn’t even tried to interject. The thought of Myra makes Eddie inhale sharply. “That bad, huh?”

“No, I…” Eddie trails off, then stops. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in his hair, pulling on a couple locks of it. He’s been letting it grow out, now that Myra’s not telling him to cut it. It’s been a couple of months. He sort of likes it longer like this; it gets curlier the longer it goes, and it makes him feel like he’s becoming more himself. Less the stuck-up Edward Kaspbrak he’d been becoming, and more the nerdy neurotic Eddie Kaspbrak he used to be. He’d enjoyed being that guy, he thinks, in high school. He’s not sure. But he thinks so.

“Eds?” Richie prompts again. He’s starting to sound genuinely concerned, now. “You alright, man?”

“No, yeah, sorry, I’m just… tired, I think,” Eddie says. “I’ll usually get some sleep before I wake up to call, I’ve been up packing.”

“You wake up to call the show?” Richie asks. Eddie’s face burns. He’s glad it’s dark so he can’t see himself in the reflection of the mirror over the dresser. He’s absolutely sure it would be so embarrassing he’d never speak again in public, for fear of exposing that exact face to the general populace. “You know the show starts at ten, right? You could be calling—”

“But I  _ want  _ to call at two,” Eddie argues. “I  _ always  _ call at two—”

“You can call multiple times!” Richie exclaims.

“He really shouldn’t—” Theresa interjects, but Eddie barely registers her, and Richie doesn’t seem to notice, either.  _ Too wrapped up in each other.  _ Eddie’s chest still hurts.

“I haven’t told her,” Eddie blurts out. There’s a quiet moment, and then he continues, “My— My wife. Ex-wife. Soon-to-be… ex. Wife.”

“Good one,” Richie replies. “Why haven’t you told her?”

“I found out today that I could move in tomorrow, and I thought it would be so much better to just— make a clean break,” Eddie says. “We’re already getting a divorce. Why drag it out and have us both suffer by living here any longer? I’m done living this life. I’m ready to move on.”

Richie makes a soft noise, this time. Eddie blushes again, even if he won’t entirely acknowledge to himself  _ why  _ he’s blushing. “Aw, Eddie, I’m  _ so proud  _ of you.  _ So  _ proud.”

Eddie gets kind of turned on again, which is— probably going to become something of a problem, if it  _ keeps  _ happening. He manages a choked, “Thanks, Richie.”

“No, no, thank  _ you,”  _ Richie says. “What an inspiration. You make me want to be my best self, Eds. I love that about you.”

Eddie exhales softly. He sternly tells himself it’d be inappropriate to touch himself at  _ all  _ while Richie was talking directly  _ to him.  _ That’s crossing a line. He thinks. Probably. He shuts his eyes for a moment, squinting them closed.

“I’m so excited to move out,” Eddie tells Richie softly. It feels like it’s just the two of them, for a moment. Eddie’s stupidly hard; he can hear Richie breathing on the other end, and it’s doing weird things to his brain and his body. “I’m really excited to move  _ on,  _ Richie.”

“I’m excited for you,” Richie says. “How’s the Red Dragon been going? Now that— Uh. I just mean, now that you’re gonna be in your own place and all—”

“You’re such an idiot, Rich,” Theresa scolds. Eddie’s cheeks hurt from smiling. He’s visited the Red Dragon already, a couple of times, but he didn’t see Richie there. He’d been surprised to hear him mention it the night before, just because he’d been listening for someone who sounded like Richie the entire time he’d been there. When he hadn’t found him, he’d instead let tall guys with broad shoulders and curly hair touch him, just to start exposing himself to it.

As it turns out, it’s really not all that bad. He even kind of likes it, even if he showers as soon as he gets home. Alone. Each time. Because nobody ever really makes him laugh like Richie does.

Anyways.

“I’m not really hitting the Red Dragon anymore,” Eddie tells him. “Or anywhere, really.”

“Oh?” Richie asks. “And why not? I thought you wanted to get out there, find yourself a man.”

“I just— I might be interested in somebody,” Eddie says, panicked, because it’s the truth and he tries to be honest with Richie and so it just  _ slips out,  _ stupidly. He’s spent  _ so many years  _ lying, and  _ this  _ is the thing he decides to fuck up. Perfect.

“Ahh,” Richie says. It sounds— a little strained, Eddie thinks, but he might be projecting. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. “You’re interested in someone. Well, that’s— Eds! That’s— That’s great, why didn’t you say? That’s big news, too, buddy!”

_ Buddy,  _ which is still nice but isn’t  _ babe  _ or  _ Eds  _ or  _ honey  _ or any of the other endearing pet names Richie’s given him. This one’s just-a-friend nickname. Eddie can’t tell if it’s because Richie’s upset over the idea of Eddie being interested in someone else, if it’s because Richie’s upset that Eddie’s interested in  _ him,  _ or if it truly means nothing and Eddie’s just catastrophizing, like Marcie says he always does.

“What’s their name?” Richie asks, because  _ of course  _ he does. It’s the worst question he could possibly ask, because the only true answer is Eddie saying either  _ you  _ or  _ Richie,  _ in which case he’s fucked, or lying, in which case he’ll probably give himself a stress migraine out of guilt and repression.

“I can’t say,” Eddie says, choked, choosing option C: none of the above. “I don’t— I don’t want them to know.”

“You think they’re listening?” Richie asks. Eddie huffs a humorless laugh.

“Oh, I  _ know  _ they are,” Eddie mutters.

“Are you with them now?” Richie asks lowly, like they’re not on the fucking radio. “Oh, are we  _ interrupting?  _ Do you want another sexy song, Eds?”

“Absolutely  _ not,”  _ Eddie laughs, his face flushing hot. He shifts onto his back and exhales away from the phone, slowly, trying to steady himself.

“That’s a yes!” Richie exclaims. He sounds a little more himself; Eddie feels better, too, being on the familiar ground of just bickering back and forth with Richie for fun. “Alright, Eds. This one’s for you and your special someone in your sexy times. Maybe tomorrow you’ll call in and give us the  _ deets.” _

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Eddie says, and then they both groan simultaneously.

“Nope, you two know the rules,” Theresa tells them. “One of you drops an f-bomb, the call’s over, you’re done.”

“But—” Eddie starts to say, but Theresa cuts him off with a sharp noise.

“No  _ buts,”  _ Theresa says. Eddie can hear Richie laugh over the phone, and she says, “Oh,  _ real  _ mature—”

“Not my fault!” Richie exclaims. “What, you think I’m a comedian because I’m  _ mature?” _

“Oh, Richie, I meant to ask, I— Well, not really ask, but I didn’t know you were getting into open mics again?” Eddie asks. It’s something they’ve discussed a couple of times, how Richie wants to be a standup comedian or a writer more than a radio host, really. Richie’s felt a little stuck lately. Eddie can relate, obviously. They have a lot in common to talk about.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I don’t know, all that stuff you said about your career and moving on and being who you wanna be and shit— You made some sense there, Eds.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Eddie replies drily.

“I mean it,” Richie insists. “I’ve got some new material, all my own stuff. I’m testing it out now, workshopping it a little.”

Eddie smiles. His chest feels warm, and he’s still hard, but it’s an affection-boner now.  _ For the love of fuck,  _ he thinks desperately,  _ no, no, no— _

But he’s already fucked himself over, because he doesn’t just think about Richie at night, in the darkness, with the phone cradled against his ear and the radio pressed into his chest. No, he’s started thinking about Richie at work, on his commutes, while he’s cleaning— He thinks about Richie  _ constantly.  _ He doesn’t even know what the guy looks like, and he’s starting to fall a  _ little  _ bit in love with—

Eddie stops himself.  _ No, you’re not,  _ he tells himself firmly.

“That’s amazing,” Eddie finally manages to say. He hopes it hasn’t been too long; his brain moves so fast, he typically only needs seconds to process information. Richie has a way of making his brain short-circuit, though. “Wow, Rich, I— I’m really proud of you. I’m really glad. You’ll have to— Keep me updated. On that.”

“Eddie Spaghetti, you’re my number one fan,” Richie says, so warmly Eddie could just wrap himself up in it. “I’ll always tell you first. You have my word.”

“A man’s word is his bond,” Eddie tells him.

“And speaking of bonds,” Richie says, “I’d like to help you start one with your mystery admiree. Let me get a sexy one going for you, alright, Eds?”

Eddie doesn’t sigh, but it’s a close call. He still feels like he lied, even if it’s technically just a lie by omission. “Rich, you don’t—”

“Oh, but I  _ do,”  _ Richie says. “Let me choose only the finest for you, Eds. I want to treat you right.” There’s a beat; Eddie’s whole body feels hot. “I— I hope you have a good night. Eddie.”

His voice is so low and warm, Eddie can’t help but tug his boxers down and wrap a hand around himself. He bites back a groan, then says, quietly, “You, too, Richie. Thank you. Good luck tomorrow.”

He sounds throaty but fine, he thinks. Richie almost sounds like he’s smiling, when he responds, “You, too, Eds. Hey, you gonna be able to call from your swanky new place? Got your phones all hooked up?”

“I’ll go to a pay phone if I have to,” Eddie says, because it’s past two-thirty and he’s exhausted and maybe Richie makes him a little bit stupid. He’s getting kind of reckless, lately, but maybe that’s who Eddie Kaspbrak is. Maybe he’s realized he can afford to be a little reckless sometimes.

“Eds,” Richie says, then stops. “I’ll play a song for you. I got one all lined up, it’s a song a dear, dear friend of mine liked back in high school.” He pauses, breath held, ready to talk. After a moment, he does. “You get some sleep. Big day ahead.”

“G’night, Rich,” Eddie replies.

“Goodnight,” Richie says again. Eddie listens to him and Theresa for the couple of soft seconds of breathing it takes to get the tape in, and then he says, “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says. The song starts, and Eddie listens for a few seconds. He laughs when The Weather Girls start up. “How’d you know I love this song?”

“You love ‘It’s Raining Men’?” Richie asks incredulously.

“I used to listen to it all the time,” Eddie says.

“And you  _ still  _ married a woman?” Richie asks. Eddie laughs, and he thinks it’s the first time he’s ever laughed about the whole thing. The whole marrying-Myra, oops-wait-I’m-actually-gay thing. Of  _ course  _ it was Richie who made him do it. “Eds, I’m sorry, I gotta revoke your gay card on behalf of the whole community—”

“Oh, shut up and let me enjoy my music,” Eddie mutters, tucking his face into his pillow as his hand slips up his cock, then down again. “Goodnight, Richie.”

“Goodnight,” Richie says,  _ again. _ Eddie hesitates, then hangs up for real this time. He uses the hand that had been holding the phone to turn up the radio so he can listen to the rest of the song while he quickly brings himself to the edge, and he tips over into orgasm as soon as Richie’s voice comes back on the air.

And that’s when it becomes a  _ Thing  _ thing.

* * *

When Richie gets home, he can’t stop thinking about how Eddie had sounded on the phone. Especially at the end of his call. The way he had talked about whoever it was he was interested in had been enough to get Richie, like, halfway to hard, and then the rough, low way he’d said  _ “Goodnight,”  _ had done the rest.

Plus. Well, the way he’d said,  _ “I’ll go to a pay phone if I have to.” _

_ That  _ was nothing to fucking sneeze at, because it stuck all along Richie’s insides like taffy. It made him feel  _ sweet. _

And also sort of like a dumbass, but what the fuck else is new? Eddie makes him kind of a dumbass.

Eddie’s low voice saying  _ “I’ll go to a pay phone if I have to,”  _ keeps repeating in Richie’s head like a skipping record. He strips all of his clothes off, underwear included, and leaves them in a heap on the floor before diving into bed. Richie’s caught in between wondering if they keep tapes of all their shows, callers included, and wrapping his hand around his cock. It only takes a second to decide on his dick, because he’s so hard he’s  _ aching,  _ has been since he was in the studio listening to Eddie talk.

He conjures images of what Eddie would look like, feel like. He closes his eyes and just imagines hands on his and pulls up Eddie’s voice, pretending it’s Eddie who has his hand around his dick, instead of him doing it to himself. It’s enough to push him up and over the edge in minutes like he’s a fucking teenager, Eddie’s name a tired whisper in his mouth.

Regretfully, he turns over and falls asleep like that, so he has to shower and wash his sheets and pillowcases the next morning before he grabs his notebooks and his coffee. He goes over each and every joke he feels is at a point that he feels comfortable about it getting laughs, in the best order to keep people happy and entertained. He workshops them until they’re done, then pushes them until they’re not funny anymore before backtracking again. That brings him up to the call time for the sign-ups for the open mic, so he leaves the house in slightly-nice blazer over a ratty old shirt he’s had since he was in high school and heads out.

His set doesn’t go half bad. He’s got a tight five ready, but he’s got a tighter ten as a back-up in case people seem to be enjoying him, and they  _ do,  _ which makes him so overconfident that he keeps going until he hits the end of the ten. He’s laughing himself, by the end of it. People applaud him when he steps down. One of the regulars that Richie’s watched a few times tells him they’re going to have another open mic in a couple of days, if he wanted to go back, and Richie can’t stop grinning.

He goes to work whistling, delighted with himself for feeling like he’s  _ accomplished  _ something, for once in a long,  _ long  _ time. When Eddie calls in at two in the morning, same as always, Richie can’t help but let his grin seep into his voice when he says, “Eddie,  _ baby,  _ how  _ are  _ you tonight? How was moving day?”

“It went well,” Eddie says. “I took the day off work, and it— It actually turned out that I didn’t have that much, uhh. Stuff. That was mine. So I only needed to make one trip, and then I made a grocery run and a few, you know, odds and ends, curtains, things like that—”

“What a swell rundown of your errands, Eddie,” Richie cuts him off.

“Shut up, dickhead, you asked,” Eddie snaps.

“Strike one,” Theresa interjects. Richie waves her off.

“Special occasion veto, it’s moving day,” Richie says. Theresa sighs, turning off her mic again. “Eds, I love hearing about your day. You  _ know  _ I do. Your shot-for-shot verbal remakes of your commute to and from work are what I live for, truly, and I think I speak for all my listeners when I say that—”

“Are you going to make a point soon?” Eddie interrupts drily. “Or should I just go and let you talk to yourself all night?”

“I  _ do  _ have other callers,” Richie says, but it’s an empty threat and they both know it. “My  _ point  _ is, though, if you’re  _ going  _ to be impatient—”

“—Which I  _ am,”  _ Eddie tells him.

“—Because  _ of course you are,”  _ Richie continues. He sighs. “My point  _ is,  _ Eds, that it doesn’t matter as much how the literal day  _ went.  _ It matters how you feel about how the day went. You know? Are you, y’know, happy, excited? Are you sad? What’s up in that brain of yours, Eddie Spaghetti?”

Eddie considers this. Nobody’s asked him how he feels about what’s going on, and he’s felt partially responsible for that, like he doesn’t keep relationships up well enough for anyone to care enough to ask.

Clearly he did one thing right, if Richie cares enough to ask. Even if it is over the radio.

“You’re so unprofessional,” Eddie says, because someone has to, before he sighs, too. “Richie, I… I’m really not sure. I think I might actually be excited. Is that wrong?”

Richie laughs. It makes Eddie laugh a little bit, too, which just makes Richie’s grin wider as he drops his chin into his hands and says, “There is  _ nothing  _ wrong with being excited to start over, Eddie. Hell,  _ I’m  _ excited  _ for  _ you. I think you’re doing something pretty amazing here.”

“Really?” Eddie asks. His voice is a little low again, but it’s soft, not rough. Richie shuts his eyes, just for a second. He smiles again.

“Yeah, Eds, really,” Richie replies. “How’re you doing? You feeling good?”

“I’m feeling good, Rich,” Eddie says. “I’ll feel better when my place has more… I don’t know. Personality, I guess.”

“Part of the quest to figure out who Eddie Spaghetti really is,” Richie comments. “Still shying away from the dating scene?”

“It’s only been a day,” Eddie answers. “Yeah, I’m not interested right now.”

“Still taken with your secret admiree, then?” Richie asks. It kind of hurts, to think of Eddie wanting someone who isn’t him, but that’s sort of insane. He’s not allowed to lust after random callers, even if those random callers really aren’t just random anymore, or  _ just callers,  _ but they’re— Eddies. They’re people like Eddie.

It’s  _ Eddie,  _ specifically, if Richie’s honest.

“I don’t—” Eddie starts to say, sounding more agitated than Richie’s heard him in a while.

“Eds?” Richie asks. “You verklempt over there? Thinkin’ about your man—”

_ “Richie,”  _ Eddie groans over the line. Richie pointedly doesn’t make eye contact with Theresa, because he doesn’t want her image to be involved in this memory when he pulls it up later from his spank bank. “Come  _ on,  _ I don’t— I don’t want to—  _ Gah—” _

“Gah?” Richie repeats incredulously. Eddie sounds almost angry, and it’s making Richie’s palms sweat. When Eddie makes another agitated noise over the line, Richie’s heart sinks. He’s weirdly into Eddie, but he shouldn’t be, but he  _ is,  _ and now he’s— What, he’s  _ jealous?  _ Over some random fucking guy who’d caught the interest of a friend Richie made over the phone on his radio show? Is he  _ that  _ pathetic?

“I just— I don’t want him to know yet,” Eddie says weakly. “I’m not ready. I don’t— I don’t think I’m ready for him. I’m not my best self yet, you know?”

Richie swallows back everything he wants to say and instead says, “Whatever you say, Eds. Let me play you a song for good luck.”

“Richie—”

“I hope you have a good night, Eds,” Richie says, his chest tight. He’s almost got whiplash from how quickly this whole thing went south. He grabs his notepad and scribbles down his song choice before holding it up to show Theresa. She frowns, but he ignores it. “And, a word of advice? Tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Eddie asks. “That some neurotic freak who’s going through a divorce wants to make a move on him?”

“Maybe not in so many words,” Richie allows, “but, yeah. Tell him that. Because if he doesn’t want some neurotic freak who’s going through a divorce? Eddie, dump his ass. You’re worth a million of him.”

Richie’s face is burning. He’s pointedly  _ not looking at Theresa,  _ who is tapping on the glass with her nail to try and attract his attention. He just wants to make  _ sure  _ that Eddie values himself before he just— just goes and falls in love with the first guy to give him attention. Eddie deserves better than that, he deserves everything. Even if Richie isn’t the one to give him that.

Even though he really,  _ really  _ wants to be the one to give him that.

Richie motions for the song to start, and Fleetwood Mac comes through his headphones.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” Richie says. “I hope you’re sleeping well in your new place. A fresh start, some fresh sheets. What more could you want?”

There’s a beat where neither of them says anything. Stevie Nicks’ voice starts to sing, and Eddie says, “I’m still figuring that part out, I guess. Goodnight, Richie.”

Richie buries his face in his hands as Eddie hangs up. He listens to Stevie sing and realizes, belatedly, that “Silver Springs” isn’t a love song. He knows that, but it had been the first song that had come into his mind. The backs of his eyes burn, and he shakes his head, pressing at his closed eyes with the heels of his hands under his glasses.

“You okay?” Theresa asks in the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m just— I’m tired,” Richie answers. He exhales slowly. “I’m good. I’m okay.”

“Okay.” Theresa hesitates, long enough that Richie drops his hands and turns to look at her. “If you’re ever not—”

“You don’t have to,” Richie hurries to say.

“I’m just saying,” Theresa continues, but Richie waves his hands.

“I’m good, I’m  _ really  _ good,” Richie insists, because the thought of a person trying to get too close gives him hives a little, still. 

_ Unless that person is Eddie, apparently,  _ he thinks, listening to Fleetwood Mac play and wondering what Eddie’s doing while he listens.

* * *

Eddie’s frowning down at the radio, because he’d mostly been expecting Richie to be flirtatious with him again and pick another fun song, or a sexy song, and Eddie would get off like he liked to, now. But “Silver Springs” is fucking— It’s  _ sad,  _ and, like, broken-hearted. It’s kind of a bummer, but Richie really hadn’t sounded all that excited about Eddie being into someone or potentially doing something about it. Eddie can tell Richie doesn’t know that it’s about him, when Eddie talks about the guy he likes, but that also means he’s not sure how to read Richie’s strange responses.

The next night, though, Richie’s back to normal, and they settle back into habit. They tease each other, bantering back and forth. Richie doesn’t ask much about the mysterious crush, and Eddie doesn’t offer information. Mostly that’s just because there’s nothing to offer: everything he could tell Richie is  _ about  _ Richie, so, there’s really no temptation.

He allows Myra to pursue a fault divorce, just like he’d intended. He doesn’t contest the divorce on account of his apparent and freshly-accepted homosexuality, which he only did because it means they can get the divorce over with as soon as humanly possible. Their prenuptial agreements still stand, and Eddie’s no worse off than he’d been while they were married, once their finances are entirely separated and the divorce is almost finalized.

Eddie still calls Richie every single night. Weeks turn into months, and he updates Richie (and, by extension, all of Richie’s listeners, which has recently expanded to include  _ the continental United States,  _ which makes Eddie hyperventilate if he thinks about it too long) on his life. He talks about his divorce as vaguely and specifically as he can, in turns. He details how his apartment decorating is going (not well, but he’s learning what he does and doesn’t like, which he also considers important). He’s also hunting for a new job.

“I’m proud of you, Eds,” Richie says, when Eddie drops that one. “F— Uhh, I mean. Screw your old job.”

“Strike one and one-half,” Theresa says absently, flipping through a magazine. She’d tuned out a while ago tonight.

“I just want a job that I actually  _ enjoy,”  _ Eddie insists. He keeps up his oath of honesty and says, “I thought about what you said, about maybe working for a car service. I want to own my own business, I thought— Maybe I could apply for night graduate schools, looking into business programs?”

“That’s  _ amazing,”  _ Richie exclaims. He always tells Eddie that he’s  _ amazing,  _ or  _ incredible,  _ or  _ brave,  _ or  _ wonderful.  _ It makes Eddie’s face burn, every fucking time. He feels like a dumbass kid when Richie approves of him. He tries to tell himself it’s only because he’s embarrassed that he feels this way about a literal stranger, but he knows why it is, really. He knows Richie’s not a stranger, not anymore. Not even close. Sometimes, it feels like he never was. “What’s the business plan, then? Lay it on me.”

“You’re going to steal my ideas,” Eddie accuses.

“How  _ dare  _ you assume I’m smart enough to steal your ideas,” Richie gasps. Eddie laughs as Richie continues, “I’m  _ horrified,  _ Eddie, and a  _ little  _ turned on—”

“Dickhead, weren’t you your school’s valedictorian?” Eddie interrupts.

“So my sister throws in my face periodically,” Richie says. “Honestly, don’t remember.”

Eddie doesn’t ask. He knows how it feels, to have weird gaps like that. It seems like Richie sort of gets it, too, so Eddie doesn’t prod too much.

“It’s like a car service where you can share rides with your friends and track your cab drivers,” Eddie explains. “That way, people getting rides in the city feel safe when they call us, and our drivers are held accountable. What do you think, Richie?”

Richie tells Eddie what a genius he is, what a great  _ idea  _ he’s got, and Eddie buries his face into his new pillows on his new bed, starting to finally smell like him instead of detergent and the plastic packaging they’d come in. He’s delighted, and it takes a while, but he finally stops turning his face away when Richie makes him smile. Instead, he just laughs, sitting up in bed with the lights on, talking to Richie over the phone, across the airwaves, and over the radio.

Occasionally, Richie will ask about dating. Eddie always tries to stay as vague as possible when he does. He’s long since stopped trying to go to  _ any  _ bars at  _ all,  _ since he’s completely uninterested. He’s exhausted by trying to pretend he’s not talking about Richie when Richie asks questions about  _ himself.  _ Unknowingly, but it gives Eddie a headache every time, so. It’s just easier to avoid the problem entirely. He has no right to feel this way. He doesn’t actually  _ know  _ Richie, even if he feels like he does.

He  _ doesn’t. _

So, he has  _ no right. _

And so, the night after the day that Eddie’s divorce is finalized, he manages to make himself wait until two o’clock before he calls. It’s starting to get cold outside again, so he’s wrapped in a few blankets on his bed, but the lights are on, his radio’s turned up, and the phone’s pressed close into his ear as he smiles.

“Eddie!” Richie exclaims. “You are the apple of my eye, the love of my  _ life,  _ Eddie, what  _ would  _ I do without you—”

“Shut up,” Eddie interjects, and Richie just laughs. Eddie’s starting to think he may actually  _ really  _ be the love of his life, which is a horrifying thought to have about a person whose face you’ve never even seen, and whose job it was to talk you through your divorce over the radio.

_ That wasn’t his job,  _ a voice whispers in the back of Eddie’s mind. He thinks it might just be his own thoughts encouraging him, for once, instead of tearing him down.  _ He went beyond his job. He did that for you. _

“Any good news tonight?” Richie asks. “How’s that divorce coming along, Mr. Spaghetti?”

“It’s done,” Eddie tells him. There’s a beat of silence before Richie whoops. Eddie cringes, turning the radio down and yanking the phone away from his ear in the same movement.

“Jesus, Rich, warn me first,” Theresa snaps on the other end.

“You’re free?” Richie asks excitedly. Eddie grins, leaning back against his pillows.

“I’m entirely divorced, newly single, and living on my own,” Eddie tells him. “I’m starting a new job next week— I mean, granted, it’s within the company I was already in, just in a different department so I can get more experience and get better hours while I go to my grad school classes and try to actually care about what I’m doing—”

“Eddie, I’m literally  _ begging  _ you to take a breath and a sip of water,” Richie interrupts. Eddie scowls, but does as he asks. He keeps a glass of water next to the bed because of how often Richie asks him to do that, when he gets too excited. Eddie doesn’t mind; he hasn’t been too  _ anything  _ in a  _ long  _ time. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re starting a new job that’s better for you and going to school to get more cool. All I’m doing is going to Jupiter to get more stupider—”

_ “Richie,”  _ Eddie laughs, and it works. He’s calmed down a lot, now that Richie’s broken his frantic pacing. “Anyways. Besides all of that, my landlord said we can have pets, so. I’m thinking of adopting a dog.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Richie says, “You know, I have a dog.”

Eddie grins. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned. Luke?”

“Luke Skywalker Tozier,” Richie corrects.

“Oh, yeah, I remember that stupid-ass name,” Eddie says.

“How many strikes is that?” Theresa asks.

“One,” Richie and Eddie say simultaneously.

“You’re lying, but I don’t care,” Theresa says. “One it is.”

“Dogs are pretty awesome,” Richie continues. They’re both quiet again before Richie tacks on, “I’m proud of you.”

Eddie’s heart fucking  _ leaps  _ into his throat, and Richie chooses “The Promise” by When In Rome. It’s so intense that Eddie starts to panic. He remembers listening to this song, when he was young; he thinks he cried to it at some point. Once the singer hits the chorus and starts going fucking  _ on  _ about waiting for someone to fall for you, Eddie’s panic hits an apex and he hangs up without a goodnight. Which he’s  _ never  _ done.

“Motherfucker,” Eddie says. He thinks about calling back, but he’s mortified and turned on and scared and thrilled. There’s too much to process, so he turns up the radio and shuts off the lights. He’s too keyed up to sleep, as it turns out, so he jerks off to Richie’s voice in between songs before he cums and has to turn the radio off entirely, too overwhelmed and overstimulated to deal with it all anymore.

The next night comes, and Eddie stares at the clock as two o’clock comes, but he’s still so mortified. He’s sure Richie’s caught onto him, he’s  _ sure  _ of it, and he’ll probably call in and Richie will make him patch through to a private line and tell him politely he’s not interested, that it’s just a show personality and Eddie’s in too deep— Or, or  _ worse,  _ Theresa will be the one to tell him, and he’ll never even  _ talk  _ to Richie again—

So, no. He doesn’t call back the next night. He’s too terrified. Richie calls him brave all the time, but he doesn’t think that’s ever been further from the truth. It’s been almost a year since he first called in to Richie’s show and asked what to do about Myra, and his entire life has changed since then, and yet he’s  _ still  _ not brave enough to own up to his feelings.

“You can do this,” he says to himself in the mirror. He’s got the phone in his hand. The number for Richie’s show is long since committed to his memory. All he has to do is dial it. “C’mon, Eddie. You can do this. Just call him.”

* * *

Eddie never calls.

Richie waits, and waits, and  _ waits,  _ and Eddie never calls in the next night. It’s the first night he’s missed since New Year’s Day, the very first night he’d called. Fear and rejection settle like a rock in Richie’s stomach as he takes call after call from listeners asking where Eddie is, once it’s past two-thirty and it becomes clear he’s not calling.

Richie laughs humorlessly, strained even to his own ears, and tells them, “Guys, Eddie will never get through if you’re always hogging the line, c’mon! You’re playing yourselves!”

He’s joking, but he hopes it’s true. The callers clear the lines, but Eddie doesn’t call. The show ends at four without a call from Eddie, and Richie’s fucking terrified. He ignores Theresa’s look as he leaves, slides out without anyone else noticing and drives home to sleep.

He doesn’t sleep. He can’t even eat, but he’s supposed to have a big gig tonight before he’s got to be at the studio. He’s supposed to have his own forty-minute set, and there’s  _ supposedly  _ going to be a couple of scouts there, but Richie feels like shit. He’s hungry and exhausted but he pulls through the set anyways, because his content is good and he’s done it so many times he’s a pro at his own material. He could recite it backwards like a Satanic Beatles record. He was  _ ready. _

He killed, and his brand-new agent Dottie tells him his stage presence was off as soon as he’s standing at the bar with her.

“You need to fix whatever’s fucking you up,” Dottie says, licking the salt off the rim of her margarita glass. She glares up at him. “You got lucky this time, Rich. You can’t count on that to happen every time.”

The only good things that ever happen to Richie are  _ because  _ they’re lucky, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t get a chance before a stranger approaches him and pulls him aside to tell him that she knows Lorne Michaels and she’d like to introduce them, if Richie didn’t mind, and potentially try to get him an audition on  _ Saturday Night Live. _

Richie’s earth-shatteringly polite and grateful, does everything short of hugging this woman, and then, when she leaves, he collapses in a stall in the men’s bathroom of the comedy club and throws up until Dottie comes to find him and drags him out.

It’s the special New Year’s Eve show at work, so Richie just can’t  _ not  _ go, no matter how fucked up he feels. He drives himself to the studio, trying not to think about Eddie, who still hasn’t called into the station at all. Instead, he settles on cloud fucking nine, thinking about all the possibilities of his life now. A year ago, if someone had told him that he’d be approached by someone who wanted to introduce him to  _ Lorne Michaels,  _ he would’ve laughed in their fucking  _ face.  _ But now,  _ now,  _ it’s actually fucking  _ happening. _

So what if it makes Richie a little reckless? It’s not like he has anything to lose. Besides, some guys like a little reckless. He’s hoping Eddie’s one of them.

At one forty-five in the morning, Richie waves Theresa off and says, “Before I take another caller, I just want to give a quick message. Eddie Spaghetti, this one’s for you, if you’re listening.”

Theresa’s looking at him, wide-eyed. Richie just barrels on.

“Eds, a year ago tonight— Well, a couple hours from now, but still. Tonight— I told you to make a New Year’s resolution to yourself,” Richie says. “I told you to figure out who you really are and to be the best version of yourself that you can be. And it’s been amazing to watch you do that. And I know you just got divorced, and I know you’re interested in someone else, but— If you’re at all interested in maybe getting a coffee sometime with me, I would— I would be just fine with that.”

Theresa gives him a shaky thumbs-up when he looks at her. He gives her one back and looks away, staring at the clock. Time has never seemed to go slower, and yet two o’clock comes and goes, and Eddie doesn’t call. Same with two-thirty, and same with three o’clock, at which point Richie’s chest is hurting so badly he can barely speak.

“I’ll be right back,” Richie says through the doorway between his and Theresa’s parts of their studio. “Just a quick break, I need water.”

“Richie, I’m sorry—” Theresa starts to say, but Richie waves her off, smiling. The backs of his eyes are already burning.

“It’s fine,” he says, and darts out of the room. He plans to go to the bathroom and cry for a couple of minutes, just to get the heavy feeling out of his chest. Maybe drink some water or something and then he’ll be—

And Richie’s brain shuts off, because he steps into the hallway, looks right down the barrel into the elevator through its open doors, and makes eye contact with a man he’s never seen before. When they look at each other, there’s a jolt, then a beat, and Richie just  _ knows  _ that that’s Eddie.

Richie takes off down the hallway, nearly knocking over one of the nighttime interns in his haste to get down the hall while Eddie’s slamming on a button inside the elevator. Richie skids in through the doors just in time as they close; he realizes Eddie had been jamming the  _ door close  _ button. The two of them stare at each other in the silence of the closed elevator before Eddie presses the  _ door open  _ button. Richie reaches out and runs both hands over all the buttons, hitting every floor and making the entire wall light up.

“Oh, you dick,” Eddie says, and  _ that’s  _ his voice. Richie audibly sighs, and it would be embarrassing if Eddie’s cheeks didn’t flush pink when he did it. He looks— almost eerily like Richie had imagined, nearly five-foot-nine, strong and dark-haired with big eyes and a sweet mouth and a sharp voice—

“Hey, Eds,” Richie replies. Eddie smiles at him in return, almost like he’s not even thinking of it as he does it. He just  _ does it,  _ and Richie grins like a fucking  _ dumbass.  _ The elevator starts to move, gets a floor and a half down, then stops and sticks. The lights flicker off.

“I hate you,” Eddie says in the darkness. “Are you  _ fucking  _ kidding me? I drive all the way down here at  _ two in the morning  _ just to talk to you, and you fucking get us stuck in an elevator! Great! Great—”

“There’s an emergency button, Eds, it’s okay,” Richie says. He presses the button and an emergency operator comes through, but she tells them it’s just after three in the morning like they don’t fucking  _ know that  _ and that it’ll be a little while before she can get a couple of firefighters down there to help them out.

“That sort of defeats the point of an  _ emergency button,”  _ Eddie snaps into the speaker. Richie sits down on the floor on the elevator and Eddie whirls on him. “Do you know how many germs are in that carpet? You’re probably going to catch the Bubonic Plague—”

“I probably won’t,” Richie interjects.

“And none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t pushed all the buttons!” Eddie exclaims.

“Hey, whoa, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t  _ started this  _ by  _ not calling us,”  _ Richie says. The emergency backup lights kick on, flooding the elevator with a dim glow. Richie can just make out Eddie’s handsome features, which is pretty much perfect, for him. Eddie’s openly staring at him, when he looks; then he blushes, and looks away. Richie grins.

“I don’t  _ have  _ to call,” Eddie snaps. “It’s a radio show! I’m under no obligation to call in every  _ single  _ night to a fucking  _ radio show—” _

“Oh, I thought we were friends?” Richie asks. He’s getting angry, too, feeling his temper starting to boil up when rejection stings him hard. “But I wouldn’t want to be an  _ obligation—” _

“That’s not what I—” Eddie starts, then stops, making a small shrieking sound. “That’s not what I  _ meant!” _

“Well, what  _ did  _ you mean?” Richie demands. Eddie shakes his head furiously.

“I don’t  _ know,”  _ he says desperately. “I don’t  _ know  _ what I mean, I don’t  _ know—” _

“Well,” Richie starts, because he’ll regret it if he doesn’t ask. “What about the guy you’re so interested in?”

Eddie frowns and says, “What? What guy?”

“The guy? The one that you keep mentioning?” Richie reminds him. He’s frowning, too, confused. “Your crush. Or whatever.”

“Oh, right, I forgot that you—” Eddie stops. Even in the dim light, Richie can see he looks horrified with himself. Eddie lifts his head and they look at each other in the silence for a long, long moment. Richie’s heart pounds so hard he’s surprised Eddie doesn’t comment on it.

“Forgot that I what?” Richie asks. They’re quiet again. “Eddie. Forgot that I  _ what?” _

Eddie looks down, for a moment, before he visibly steels himself, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin until they’re making eye contact again. “I forgot— I forgot that you didn’t know I was talking about  _ you  _ this whole time.”

Richie’s brain shorts out into static and white noise. Eddie keeps talking, saying, “Which is stupid, because we don’t even really know each other, and this is the first time we’re actually even meeting, which is— That’s sort of crazy, actually, because I— I weirdly feel like I’ve known you forever, but I haven’t, which is insane, and I don’t—”

All Richie can think of is  _ Eddie’s been thinking about me, he’s been talking about me, he’s interested in me,  _ and so he has to cut Eddie off and say, “No, no, I feel it, too.”

“You do?” Eddie asks. The light catches his dark eyes, makes him almost glow.

“Yeah,” Richie tells him. “I was so devastated because I thought— I just thought you’d found someone else, but I didn’t really have any right to be upset, but I  _ was,  _ just— so angry and jealous. It’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” Eddie says, and that plus the two steps he takes to close the space between them is all the warning Richie has before Eddie is pressing up into him to kiss him. Richie feels pure  _ joy  _ explode in his chest, lust and tenderness and happiness settling delightedly inside of his heart and his head.

He pulls back from Eddie and says, “Hey, Eddie, what’s your last name?”

Eddie laughs. “It’s Kaspbrak—”

“Eddie Kaspbrak, will you be my boyfriend?” Richie asks, as soon as he has his answer. Eddie laughs again, and Richie would do anything to keep him laughing forever, he realizes with a jolt.

“That’s so  _ juvenile,”  _ Eddie tells him with a smile. “Yeah, of course I will.”

Richie kisses him again, but it’s barely a kiss, too much teeth and grinning going on for it to really count. Richie loves it more for all of that.

Eddie pulls back again to ask, “What’re you going to tell your listeners?”

_ “Well,”  _ Richie tells him, “I  _ may  _ have an  _ SNL  _ audition so they may or may not even be my listeners for much longer.” Richie smiles down at Eddie and cups his face in his hands, just because he  _ can,  _ because he’s allowed to have this and he feels like he’s wanted Eddie  _ forever. _

“Rich, really?” Eddie asks. “That’s amazing—”

“No, shh, I was building up to something,” Richie says. “It’s New Year’s Eve, and I was hoping to get a special guest on the show tonight.”

“Who?” Eddie asks.

“Don’t be willfully obtuse, you fucking clown,” Richie says, startling a laugh out of Eddie.  _ “You,  _ you idiot. If you want to. And then maybe I can take you out after for dinner— I mean, well. Breakfast, I guess.” Richie exhales, then says, “Can you believe it’s been a whole year since we met?”

“Why the fuck do you think I’m down here?” Eddie asks. “I wanted to apologize and remembered it was our anniversary and—”

“You think of this as our  _ anniversary?”  _ Richie asks, delighted. Eddie groans in the darkness.  _ “Eds—” _

“Of  _ course  _ I remembered, you fucking idiot,” Eddie snaps, blushing. He somehow manages to be both weirdly bashful and incredibly aggressive. Richie feels like he’s got cartoon hearts in his eyes just looking at him.

“Yeah, let’s definitely do breakfast, then,” Richie says, and Eddie agrees.

* * *

Eddie can’t help the way he wants to claw through Richie’s skin and climb inside. It’s the most fire he’s ever had in his body at once, and Richie keeps saying things like  _ boyfriend  _ and  _ breakfast  _ and it’s getting to Eddie in a way nothing and no one but Richie has in exactly a year, and definitely much longer.

In that year, Eddie’s completely turned his life around. He has his own apartment, decorated how he likes it; he goes to a job that he doesn’t hate and doesn’t make him miserable; he attends classes to get a master’s degree in something he actually cares about; he goes home to listen to the voice of the man he’s currently kissing, the only man he’s interested in, someone who’s— who’s funny and cute and— and who treats him nice. Who he might just be in love with.

Who looks  _ amazing  _ and Eddie is  _ entirely  _ fucked up by it. They’ve clicked over the radio for a year now, hours and hours of talking about anything and everything over the radio waves together. Eddie’s delighted to find himself clicking with Richie physically, too, pressing up into his tall body, wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders, tangling his fingers in his curly dark hair. He’s exactly what Eddie’s been hoping for this entire time.

“Shit, I’m so into you,” Richie murmurs into Eddie’s throat. Eddie gasps, then pushes Richie’s dark red blazer off his shoulders and tugs at his shirt. Richie laughs, then helps him, tugs his shirt off before he unbuttons Eddie’s. He’s working furiously, getting them both shirtless in record time before he’s snapping open their pants and dragging Richie’s cock out. He pulls his own dick out, too, wraps his hands around both of them.

“Holy fuck,” Eddie breathes. Richie lifts his head, buries his face in Eddie’s hair. “God,  _ Richie—” _

“Yes,  _ yes—”  _ Richie’s cut off when a moan comes out of his throat unbidden. It’s the hottest thing Eddie thinks he’s ever heard. He drags Richie’s face in to kiss him again as he jerks them off together. Richie makes a muffled sound and then ducks down, grabbing his t-shirt. He wraps it around Eddie’s hands and their cocks together right before he cums, catching the mess for them, and it’s so fucking weirdly hot that Eddie tips over the edge right after him. It doesn’t take long at all, but with the way Richie’s panting against his neck and trying to hold Eddie closer, Richie knows it’s far from their last time, so he feels pretty fucking good about it.

By the time the firefighters are able to get them out, Eddie’s tightly folded up Richie’s disgusting t-shirt and Richie’s just buttoned up the three buttons of his blazer, leaving himself distractingly bare-chested underneath. Eddie’s hypnotized by his broad shoulders and his body hair and the flush that spreads down his chest when he catches Eddie looking at him. It’s  _ everything  _ to him.

“I’ve got a special guest here with me for the end of our New Year’s show,” Richie says into the mic, once they're both back in the studio, before he passes it over to Eddie, leaning them in together to share. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got Eddie here in the studio with us  _ live.” _

“You’re fucking  _ kidding me!”  _ Theresa shouts through the glass. Richie whirls on her.

_ “Party foul!”  _ he exclaims. Theresa flips him off, and Eddie can’t help but laugh.

“Hi, everyone,” Eddie says into the mic. It drags Richie’s attention back to the show, and he grins at Eddie for a brief moment.

“Eddie came down for a visit, since you guys clogged the phone lines so bad he couldn’t call,” Richie jokes. Eddie reaches out and takes Richie’s hand on impulse; Richie squeezes it before he leans in closer, pressing their ears together and stretching his headphones until they each have one. “And, look at this, he’s got a special announcement. Tell ‘em what we’re up to, Eds.”

Eddie sighs, but he can’t help but smile when he says, “We’re up to no good.”

“Oh, you’re such a dingus,” Richie says fondly. “We’re dating. We’re  _ together.” _

Eddie leans in, and Richie meets him halfway, kissing him for so long that Theresa bangs on the glass again. Richie doesn’t pull away, so Eddie doesn’t, either, cupping Richie’s face in his and pushing the mic away. He’s finally got the real fucking thing. It’s New Year’s Day, 2004, and Eddie doesn’t need the radio anymore. He’s got Richie Tozier all to himself.

* * *

It’s New Year’s Day, 2005, and Eddie Kaspbrak is a guest star on the radio show that took Richie’s slot. Richie’s a guest star, too, because they’ve been invited back for their anniversary. Some guy named Don has taken over the show, but Eddie doesn’t listen anymore; the guy isn’t half as funny as Richie ever was. Don’s been doing the job for almost a year, now, after Richie had had his audition for  _ SNL  _ in early January, improvising some impressions and eventually (in Eddie’s mind, inevitably) getting hired. Eddie’s so fucking proud of him sometimes that he can’t stand it.

Richie says the same thing about him, now that Eddie’s started his own car service business. He says the same thing about both of them, actually, now that they’re engaged to be married. They’re getting married in four months, actually, and Eddie’s got a countdown on his desk. He marks off every day closer. He’s so fucking excited, every single day, and it’s a separate thrill that he finally gets to be  _ excited  _ to get married.

They’ve moved in together (“Which means I  _ have  _ adopted a dog,” Eddie says, when they’re asked during their interview, “because I’ve adopted his dog,” to which Richie lovingly responds, “Luke Skywalker Kaspbrak-Tozier,” and Eddie smacks him on the arm) into an entirely new place. They picked it out together, and decorated it together, now that Eddie knows his tastes a little better. Eddie makes jokes on the air about how many leases he’s broken, and Richie smiles at him, and Eddie never thought he’d get to be so goddamn happy.

When Don asks, “So, what’re you two gonna do next?” Eddie’s not sure what to say. He shrugs. Richie’s got an answer, though. Of course he does.

“I really don’t care,” Richie says, “as long as we’re happy and together. That’s all I want.”

Eddie has to kiss him for that, and Richie tugs him in until Theresa, Don’s producer now, bangs on the glass again and demands that they separate. Eddie’s never been happier.

* * *

It’s creeping into the summer, 2016, and Richie and Eddie have been married for over a decade. They have three children. They have a happy life together.

Richie still throws up when Mike Hanlon calls him and tells him he has to come back to motherfucking  _ Derry.  _ He’s on the set of a movie he’s written with a couple of his buddies on  _ SNL  _ when he gets the call, and he puts Mike on hold to call Eddie.

“I know,” Eddie says over the phone. “I know, he just called me, I’m so sorry, I was going to call you but I— I crashed the car—”

“You  _ crashed  _ the— Are you okay?” Richie demands.

“I’m okay, I’m fine,” Eddie assures him. Richie wipes at his face.

“Eddie, what’re we gonna do?” Richie asks. He’s never felt this desperate before,  _ never,  _ and then the memories come flooding back, and he says, “Oh,  _ God,”  _ before he’s sick again.

“Richie, hey, it’s okay,” Eddie says over the phone. “You’re okay, it’s okay—”

“I can’t believe I lost you,” Richie says. He can’t help himself from starting to cry, folding up right onto the ground.

“Hey, we found each other anyways,” Eddie reminds him. Richie buries his face in his knees, even though he’s forty years old and his back is killing him. “We’re meant to be, right?”

“Do you really believe that?” Richie asks, because it sounds like a load of bullshit that Eddie would never buy into.

“Richie, I just remembered we fought a demon space clown when we were thirteen and we still managed to find each other over the radio,” Eddie says drily. “I’m gonna fucking say  _ yeah,  _ I could believe in fate when it comes to you and me.”

That’s Eddie’s romance, his way of showing love and intimacy; antagonizing Richie is his love language, which is great, because being antagonized by Eddie is Richie’s. It always has been. Eddie is every crush Richie’s forgotten, every broken heart he’d lost, every hazy first love he just couldn’t remember. It all comes flooding back, and Richie just feels fucking lucky that he got Eddie in spite of  _ all  _ the bullshit around them.

“We’re going to be okay,” Eddie says over the phone. “We’re going to get through this, Rich.”

And, amazingly, they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some [amazing fanart](https://urcheekbones.tumblr.com/post/189888648209/yall-go-read-this-fic-this-new-years-you-wont) by [urcheekbones](https://urcheekbones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!
> 
> You can (and should!) come chat with me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicolelianesolo) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/). I'm currently taking commissions there, as well!


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